Philip Simpson: Tribulation

Richland, Ohio

Three and a half years into the Tribulation

Sam crouched in the gloom and waited for night to fall. He shifted restlessly, his body keen to be doing something — anything other than wait. Waiting, however, seemed to be his lot during daylight hours. When your days were largely empty of anything other than meditation, eating and training, the excitement and action that came with nightfall were a welcome change.

He was beginning to drift into his calm, inner meditative zone again when the building he was sheltering within started to shake violently. Instantly alert, Sam sighed and stood with one fluid motion, prepared to move if the building collapsed suddenly. He eyed the shaking walls warily, shifting his feet easily to accommodate the bucking floorboards. Most were already cracked and warped — testament to the amount of ground movement they had already been subjected to. Earthquakes were becoming more and more commonplace these days. They had been a fairly regular occurrence since the Rapture but lately, they had increased in frequency and power. Sam was almost blase about them now but still treated them with a certain respect. Although not as susceptible to physical harm as normal humans, he could still become trapped under tons of rubble.

The building continued to shake, the tremor building in intensity. Sam watched curiously as a long crack appeared in the wall opposite, spreading like the tendrils of a questing weed. A crash sounded somewhere from a back room and his hand unconsciously slipped down to grip the haft on his Wakizashi tucked into his belt. When nothing emerged, he relaxed. Probably something shifting — not that there would be anything left on the walls. Any objects or photos that had once adorned the interiors had long since fallen down. If this kept up, though, he might have to move sooner than anticipated… and he was loathe to step out into daylight.

The building had once been a clothing store although there was precious little evidence of stock left now. Most of it would’ve been picked over by survivors. All the racks now lay on their side, strewn around and stacked haphazardly on top of one another. The serving counter was split down the middle. Anything remaining was now covered by a fine layer of ash which also served as an indication of recent intrusion. Sam had cased the place carefully before making it his base. No tracks in the ash, neither human nor demon, meant that no one else had been here for at least a few days.

More cracks burst into existence in the ceiling above his head. White plaster drifted down onto his hood which he brushed off carelessly. Then, without warning, the tremor stopped. The quake was over. An eerie silence filled the room — the calm after the storm. It didn’t last for long though; the building began to creak alarmingly as it settled into its new position. Sam waited it out, ready to dart away if the need arose. Thankfully it didn’t, and he settled back down into a crouch, as still as one of the mannequins that littered the floor.

Night had come now and his enhanced senses detected the inevitable changes that came with it. The moon, now the color of blood, had made an appearance from behind the almost solid barrier of clouds that swirled above the shattered town and a red stain slowly flowed into the room via various cracks and openings, filling Sam with a strange warmth and feeling of power. It was a thrilling sensation but, equally, one that filled him with disquiet: A reminder that the Earth, especially at night, now belonged to his kind. Most especially his father, the devil, the Prince of demons — and all those who served him. His kin, but also his sworn enemy.

The night, however, only belonged to the devil for a finite period. Soon enough, change would come and Satan would once again be banished to whence he had come — Hell. It was small consolation to Sam, but at least it gave him some hope. And some hope, as his master Hikari had always said, was better than none.

Right now, the darkness belonged to them. He reached out with his senses, feeling the demonic presence. He could sense them emerging from the rift between Hell and Earth, centered around the desecrated churches, their auras a hot glow of hatred in his mind. They were around but no-where in the immediate vicinity. He’d chosen this spot with care, well away from any church.

Relieved, he tried something else, something that he had become more adept at in the intervening years since the Rapture and his time spent looking after Grace. He could now sense the distinctive minds of normal humans, their presence softer and less intense than those of demons. They were much closer, in a nearby warehouse he’d identified a few days earlier. They were stirring, becoming more active, a sign in itself that all was not well.

Sam could draw only two conclusions from the activity. Either they were preparing to fight off an imminent demon attack or — much more sinister — they were in league with the demons and were planning their evening abominations.

Unfortunately, the latter explanation was the only conclusion he could draw with some certainty. Experience dictated that he could no longer reveal himself when encountering humans for the first time. The reception he received, almost without exception, was poor to say the least. His disguise — if you could call his hood a disguise — didn’t last for long and the truth soon emerged. What he’d learnt long ago was that people always judged him before they knew him. Always. He just didn’t bother anymore. Instead, he liked to observe without being seen; assessing, planning, debating the best way his unique skills could be used to help those who had been left behind during the Tribulation.

In the case of the people in the warehouse — he’d observed them some days earlier and realized the dreadful truth. They were in league with the demons. There could be no doubt about it. It wasn’t just that though. They had descended into the very depths of human depravity, preying on their fellow humans. Feeding on them. Cannibalism. It had only taken him this long to act because there were too many of them and he needed to plan carefully. Some of them were armed with iron, which was the only weapon that could harm him. He would have to be careful. He had enough self-awareness to realize that while he was somewhat immune to conventional attack, he certainly wasn’t invulnerable.

He rested then, settling into the lotus position, conserving his strength for the fight to come. Entering a meditative zone, time lost all meaning, although he was careful not to let it turn into sleep. Sleep led to dreams and his dreams were all about his mother. He really didn’t want to witness her suffering again or dwell on his failure to find her all those years earlier in Hell.

Hours passed like minutes and then, abruptly, it was time. Quickly, with a seamless transition from meditation to full wakefulness, he stood.

He dropped his pack on the ash-covered floor. He’d have to come back for it later. Adjusting his swords at shoulder and hip, silent as death itself, he moved towards the entrance of the shop. The door was ajar and all the windows were shattered, so he was careful to check his foot placement. The crunch of glass could easily alert someone and he took care as he moved past the doorframe, hugging the outside wall and keeping to the shadows. Outside, he crouched down next to the cracked facade of the building and scanned around.